


'cause you're the sweetest thing

by monanotlisa



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Canon Related, Community: eleventy_kink, Dubious Consent, Episode Tag, F/M, First Time, Make Them Do It, Season/Series 05, Sex Pollen, Smut, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-04
Updated: 2010-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-09 22:03:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/pseuds/monanotlisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-ep for 5x05 <i>Flesh and Blood</i>. I'm not warning, per se, but looking rather pointedly towards the tags.</p><p><i>So he dragged her into the TARDIS too fast for her to react – to get her clothes off, for example – and brought the engines back to (whirring, unspooling) life before Amy even had time to put her hands on her hips and say as much as snogging session.</i></p><p>After that, though? Things didn't go as smoothly for the Doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'cause you're the sweetest thing

  
So he dragged her into the TARDIS too fast for her to react – to get her clothes off, for example – and brought the engines back to (whirring, unspooling) life before Amy even had time to put her hands on her hips and say as much as _snogging session_.

After that, though? Things didn't go as smoothly for the Doctor, because instead of "Leadworth, the evening I took you and, more precisely, the pub!" they've ended up here.

_Here_ being in the ruins of an ancient city, carved into the side of a seriously tall mountain with your standard snowy top, the city all spires and vennels and cobblestones made of something that looks like silver, only duller, as if an army of dwarves had scrubbed every stone with a metal scouring pad.

Amy stubs her toes over the nearest one. "Did dwarves build this?"

He looks up from the wall inscription he's studying. "What? No! What makes you think that?"

Watching The Lord of the Rings once too often, probably. But she has to come up with something smarter for the Doctor, who's eyeing her more critically now. "The size of this place. I mean, look," she points down the street, then at the gateway they're standing under. "I'd almost have to crouch stepping through."

She knows castles and this is different, as dead and abandoned as Urquhart, but that's about where the resemblance ends. There's an eerie silence over the place, but where even Scotland's ruins are green, this is grey. Shades of it, sure, yet almost no colour anywhere.

"True, yes, but dwarves aren't the only species that comes in small. I think –" He lets his fingers (long fingers on large hands, hel-lo) run along the outside wall, follows them into the gateway and beyond. She hears the sonic screwdriver before she can see: the doctor is using it as a flashlight in the half–darkness of the house. His voice reverberates inside its stony structure. "– yes, I didn't just think, I was perfectly right. Come here, Amy, see?"

When she ducks her head and steps inside, careful not to slip on the rubble, she finds him by the left-hand wall. Excited, eyes locked on the side of the house and – wait; it's not proper inscriptions that he's staring and pointing that screwdriver at: it's tiny pictures of people – aliens – with pointy ears.

"Oh, you're right," she says, as deadpan as possible, "so it's the elves who built this. My mistake. Of course that changes everything."

His glare tells her that it kind of does, and it's not as if she really disagrees. She looks back at the alien cartoons, the ones the Doctor is peering at. Turns out they're not just rows and rows of tiny elves, they're also rows and rows of tiny elves in various – positions. Sexual positions, that is; even at first glance, she sees three doggy-styles, a sixty-nine, and a figure that she hasn't even come across in the scuffed _Illustrated Kamasutra_ that Jeff keeps (very badly) hidden under his bed. This one involves two girls, one guy, and a donkey-like creature that she hopes to God is sentient.

"Wow." She grins. "Talk about the birds and the bees and the _elves_."

The Doctor is not amused, though. Instead, he's doing that squinty–thing with his face, which he probably thinks makes him look lost in deep thought while really it just looks as if he has to go the loo right now. Amy did know he was a little uptight, a little bit in need of some sorting-out of the sexual sort, but enough so that a few naughty pictures on a wall make him this uncomfortable?

"Amy, we need to leave."

As always, he announces – doesn't discuss, doesn't tell her why.

So she has to ask.

"Why?"

"Because this is a dangerous, dangerous place, one of the worse worlds I've been on. There's a reason the Mhreezh left this city, in this place." It'd be helpful if he told her the reason, but no, he just gives her one of his foreboding glances, waves at her with the screwdriver still set to sonic, and steps outside, swifter than swift.

All because of some ancient kamasutra cartoons? Amy leans down with a frown, puts her own fingers over the old carvings. The stone is cold under her fingers, but it feels perfectly normal –

until a tremble is going through the mountain, roaring like a thousand lions. She's not shaking, but the ground is, and Amy almost yelps, steadying herself against the wall with both hands now. Both the sound and the tremor stop, then, as suddenly as they'd begun, but she doesn't know where the Doctor is, if he's okay, if something's happened.

She almost trips over her own feet on her way to the entrance, to the light in the dimness of this stone hall, but before she can reach it, she hears his voice.

"Amy, stop!"

There's fear, but also anger and steel: enough to build another whole city from. Amy does stop and doesn't stumble. Just blinks and looks out at the street where the Doctor is standing and – shielding his eyes. Shielding his eyes against the glare. Glare from what? Five minutes ago, the sun was only slowly filtering down the slopes.

Now, there's still sun – only it's reflecting off a million tiny particles, smaller than snowflakes, bigger than dust. Bright, though, as bright as if someone had emptied a truck-load of glitter into the air and pointed floodlights at it all.

As if all the grey had sparked to silver.

She wants to go outside, drag the doctor back in here, perhaps: inside where the particles haven't reached her. Wants to, badly, but doesn't need to, it seems, because after a minute, there's another sound outside that's unsettling but far more familiar: the howling of the wind. Gusts of it are rushing by, coming down the mountain, carrying their glitter away, down and down.

When she can't see a single spark any more, Amy rushes to the Doctor's side. "Doctor! Are you all right?"

He's bent over, coughing, and his eyes are a little blurry. When he exhales, she leans away quickly, and not too quickly either: there's a last puff of silver, finally dispersing. But it's not just that, it's how the Doctor looks at her. "I – I'm fine. In fact, I'm better than fine. Hel-lo, Amy." His fingers curl around hers, shy but warm. Too warm. His pupils are blown wide.

Fairy dust is not one of her areas of expertise. But Amy guesses it'll have to become one, very soon. She tightens her grip on the Doctor and looks around. The city is still abandoned, except for them. But when she glances upwards, she can see it – can see a long swath of destroyed buildings that almost reaches them, and above, the avalanche that caused it: large rock formations that have come crashing down.

In the gap, she sees glitter far brighter than the stones.

If need be – if the TARDIS needs to analyse it, or something, she can climb up there again and grab a sample. She wouldn't even need a map; now, this place is lit up like a Christmas tree with far too much silver tinsel.

Time to leave for now, let them figure it all out in safety. "Okay, so let's go back inside."

"Absolutely. Right away. This very minute." But he doesn't move, blinks into the sun. "I may be finding it a bit hot out here, anyway." He tugs at his collar, pops the first button on his shirt, which is – very nice, but also a little distracting, and also, what was in that damn glitter dust?

She tugs at the Doctor's hands only lightly, but he startles at that, glancing first at her face and then at their intertwined fingers before snatching them away as if she was burning him. Is that a blush? She tries to get a closer look at his face, but the Doctor turns his face away, hunches his shoulders, and shoves his hands into trouser-pockets she didn't even know he had.

Fine. Amy turns on her heels and walks towards the TARDIS. Only when she's almost reached the door does she glance over her shoulder. Yes, the Doctor is following – her, but mostly her bum and her legs. That's new, or perhaps just lacking all the usual subtlety. She lifts a questioning eyebrow, and from his slight deer-in-the-headlights look, she knows he knows she knows, so they better carry right the hell on. "Key?"

"Key. Right, TARDIS key; we need it to get inside, we very much do." He leans forward even further, still avoiding eye contact and rummaging in his breast pocket for what feels like half a year. For crying out loud, Amy will get it herself if she needs to. She grabs him by the lapel of his brown jacket with one hand and bats his fumbling fingers away with the other.

They're trembling a little, his fingers, and when Amy touches them, the Doctor makes a muffled little sound she can't quite place. His face is flushed, definitely, and if she had ever wondered if Timelords can sweat like normal human beings, well, the answer'd be a resounding 'yes.' Almost as if he were in pain, only not, which is –

oh. _Oh_. Amy thinks to look down this time around, and now that she knows what she's looking for, no hunch will hide it. The Doctor's sonic screwdriver can clearly afford to be small: no need to compensate at all, not from where she stands.

Stands and checks his prick out. It may be cliché, but Amy's own body temperature sky-rockets. However, it seems at least one of them can multi-task, because Amy's fingers still find the key in that breast pocket, which clearly is bigger on the inside as well. _Focus, Pond_ (and why does the rational voice in her head sound like the Doctor? That makes no sense).

She pulls the key out with a flourish and makes sure to leave her other hand curled into the jacket of the Doctor, who looks as if he might bolt any second. Which really doesn't suit her plans for him.

At all.

"Amy," he says, and it's just her opinion, but he really shouldn't pitch his voice so low if he wants her to – not want. "Amy, perhaps you should...leave me out here to – to cool off for a spell while you go inside?" His face is scrunched up again; he's concentrating so hard.

"Just a minute ago, you said it was too hot outside in the sun." She purses her lips in a thoughtful manner. "Besides, the TARDIS is air-conditioned."

"She is not; the TARDIS has a most sophisticated system of –" oh, good; the Doctor's still the Doctor, just excited in a different way. He must've seen her small smile, because he makes the grumpy face again and says, "air-conditioned, fine; can we just – let's go inside?"

As soon as they step through the door of the police box, he tries to make a run for it – hobbling over to the console, grabbing its rail, trying to put some distance between Amy and him. Not bloody likely; not when he still looks...well, hot. Aroused. Arousing. "I'm going to retreat now."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Amy crosses her arms – under her breasts, of course – and tilts one hip against the console. Watches him track her movements, the helpless way his eyes follow the lines of her body. "Look, Doctor, all I'm saying is that there's no need for you to go to your room to toss yourself off."

"Everything I told you before is still true." He sounds a little desperate, now. "Not human, and _old_; I'm just in a young body."

"And what a fine body it is." She doesn't look away from it. "I'm not talking about forever or even romance. This is just – us. Once." She starts moving even as she's talking, slowly, carefully. He doesn't like pouncing – or, well, he may and it's just that his superego (super, indeed) is usually so firmly in the driver's seat.

Not here, not now, though.

"Once is too much, Amy."

"Oh, you're that good? Please. You can only disappoint, after all these years." She smirks, and then she's standing in front of him. The Doctor's mouth is open, his breath coming in little pants. Wide eyes – only a little of their _bluegreygreen_ left. And when she looks down, his knuckles are white against the gold of the rail. She doesn't even need to tie him down, she thinks.

Not this time around.

When she touches him – when she puts her hand lightly over his, he shivers, and his eyes flutter closed. Just for a fraction of a second, but it's still amazing. "Doctor," Amy says quietly, puts her lips next to his ear. For a moment, she's tempted to just lean here for a moment: breathe in the scent of his hair, as he has done to her. Thrilling her. But now she can feel him, taut as bowstrings undoubtedly are on some faraway planet where they weave them together from great purple–furred beasts. "This is not your decision. Just let go."

The moan he gives at that doesn't sound quite human. It could be her name, but either way, she swallows it when he slants his mouth over hers. He's hot, hot and a little clumsy, teeth clicking, making her almost-laugh before he gets it – remembers it, perhaps. Large hands hold her in place, almost a little rough, but they're still trembling, a little. They're turning her body into his, and yes, he's still as hard as before, making her the one to shudder and squirm.

"I don't – but I want –" he's muttering now, his teeth grazing her earlobe a little too fiercely, which makes heat flood between her legs, or possibly makes a flood heat between her legs, "Please, Amy."

_Please_. She honestly doesn't think there's anything she'd deny him right now, not now that he's been made to, is able to ask. "I'm here, I – yes, sure."

At that, he kisses her again, more confidently this time around but still a far cry from expert – and that shouldn't be making her so hot and wet but it does, it really does. New body; this one has no memories to rely on, has to create them on the spot.

With her.

Of course, the Doctor is very good at improvising. He's looking at her, eyes locked with hers, and that alone is enough to make her hips buck forward against his. His eyes – it's not like looking at a star–field or the centre of the sun or any nonsense like that, but his gaze is still compelling, more compelling than anything or anyone else: she's never needed any fairy dust to see that and now, with his pupils dilated black like that, it's practically magnetic.

"Off," he whispers, and it takes her a full second to realise he means her top, her skirt, which is just as well; it's what she had in mind, not to mention other places. Taking her clothes off is as awkward standing up as it always is, but the Doctor has nimble fingers, fingers that brush her nipples, whether by accident or by design she doesn't know.

He's a quick study. Amy knows this too for a fact because once she's naked (and the console is, at first, too chilly), he pulls her forward against him with one hand in the small of her back: fingers spread, five points of heat, a star on the skin of her back where she can't see. The Doctor slides his other hand up her arm, down her shoulder; both of them are staring, transfixed, as if the touch is something that's just happening to him as much as its happening to her. He cups her boob with a care that makes her swallow, hard, but there's nearly nothing gentle about him when he leans down and sucks on her nipple. She's never been especially sensitive, but it seems her body's learning all sorts of new things tonight too.

His hands on her hips, then, and Amy sucks in a breath that's, weirdly, still not enough. Not enough at all, because his tongue paints a too–hot, then too–cold trail down her chest, to her belly, where he holds – where he kneels down and stills, only to press his cheek against it. His skin is fever–hot under stubble and he's trembling, still, just a little. She lets him rest there a moment and then she can't resist, her hands are carding through his hair, luxurious under her fingers. She reaches down further. He's gotten rid of his jacket, at least, and it's amazingly easy to just slide beneath his collar, stroke the hidden nape of his neck, his shoulders. Skin and muscles and bone: what the Doctor keeps under his suit feels entirely human under her fingers, or it would if it weren't for the double staccato of his two heartbeats.

She pushes, just a tiny bit, and he sighs and kisses her bellybutton. His tongue darts out – darts inside, and Amy gasps. There's wetness down the sides of her legs now, and for a moment, she feels almost embarrassed. Not that this is the best situation for it because her hand is in the Doctor's hair and he is such a quick study; he keeps going, down, down, lifting up only before his nose hits ginger curls. His thumbs spread her wide, and the perfectly temperate air of the TARDIS hits her, cools her where she feels warmest.

The cool air's a stark contrast to his tongue, and either this is one of his newly discovered favourite tastes, or – or, fine, she takes everything back, the smirks and the taunts and the possibility of being disappointed because this is not like her late-night imaginings and the occasional dream: this is real, the metal on the console digging into her bum, her holding on to his shoulders for dear life, and his mouth on her quim impossibly hot and clever, making her legs shake and her toes curl and making her come like nothing else before. It takes her a moment and more than a few deep breaths to return to – whatever planet they're on; the Doctor isn't kneeling any more but right here, right there.

"Hello," he says, voice rough and careless but eyes not, and she can taste herself on his lips when they kiss. He leans back, fingers fast again, urgent, but not to separate: he's – thankfully, finally – losing his shirt. Amy blinks and swallows and makes short work of the button of his trousers, freeing him. The feel of his prick, silk over – not steel but something infinitely stronger, the sight of her hand curled around him are enough to make her feel a new twinge of want. He's so slick at the tip, and she can smell him even from a distance. What would he taste like? She strokes him, once, up and down and – and his hand closes around her wrist, making her inhale sharply. "Don't. I'll –" Right. Of course.

He looks so young like this, she thinks. Feels so young too, to her but also to himself. His eyes dart to the console behind them.

"Can you –"

He is, as ever, faster than her reaction; his hands grab her bottom from both sides, half–below, and lift her right up on the rim of the console to a spot where not too many small gadgets poke into her skin. If she clutches at his shoulder, his biceps, it's only half not to fall. He glances into her eyes, then down at his erection, and she spreads her legs because well, she's just considerate that way. He shuts his eyes and swallows and then finally, finally takes that as the consent it is, which means he takes her: enters her in a swift motion, and Amy almost protests. Almost, because it doesn't hurt she's so wet, relaxed. Ready, although nothing could have quite prepared her for this, for the heat and fullness of the Doctor stroking into her, breathing so fast and trembling so much that she holds onto his hips for his sake as well as hers.

Which is a good move, a great move even, because it allows him to lift his hands up, frame her face and touch their foreheads together. He still looks feverish, overwhelmed, but some hint of lucidity is back in his eyes.

"Amelia Pond," he says, and it comes out as somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes," she says, and she doesn't look away from his eyes – not even when his movements become more erratic and she has to reach down herself to touch herself where she wants it: right above where they're joined, where he's sliding in and out of her, and okay, so maybe sometimes it's star–bursts behind her eyes. Behind his too, if his collapse into her is any indication.

When she opens her eyes again, he's still collapsed in her arms, face pressed into her shoulder. She touches his hair and he glances up and smiles straight at her, brilliant, the smile he reserves for pure wonder. His skin is still too–hot to the touch and she doesn't know how soon the dust will finish working its way out of his system – Timelord metabolisms break every chemical down fast, he's told her – and she doesn't know what he'll say or do when it does. But for this moment, as she licks her lips and smiles back, she doesn't care.

**Author's Note:**

> This would never have been posted if it hadn't been for the ever-excellent [solvent](http://archiveofourown.org/users/solvent/pseuds/solvent), who added and Brit-picked and cheered and enough of the ABCs; she rocked my socks (and this story too).


End file.
